


Temperate Climate

by neverminetohold



Category: Metal Gear, Metal Gear Solid V: The Phantom Pain - Fandom
Genre: Character Study, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Ignores True Ending, M/M, Romance, Sandstorm - Freeform, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 07:41:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4911016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverminetohold/pseuds/neverminetohold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So age does slow you down."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Temperate Climate

'Caution: Sandstorm approaching.'  
  
The warning came a little late. John spat out a gritty mouthful that tasted like dirt and rust. A guard shouted in Russian at the top of his lungs and then a tinny siren sounded. While the soldiers abandoned their rounds and posts to seek shelter, John slipped past the perimeter fence that surrounded the Soviet outpost.  
  
What Ocelot had called 'the wide open world' of Afghanistan stretched before him towards the horizon, sun-withered and dried, a treeless steppe. This particular region was arid enough that nothing grew, except for camel thorn and spiny restharrow.  
  
John moved quickly, shrubs and dead grass crunching underneath his heavy boots, away from the road. Squinting ahead, he shielded his face with one arm and slowed down.  
  
The clear blue sky darkened as the wind picked up, carrying with it a flurry of particles that stung wherever they hit exposed skin. Within seconds, a dense cloud formed, an ever shifting and swirling brown mass that reduced the visibility to near zero. There was no high ground to reach, no cover, except for the leeward side of a ragged boulder.  
  
By the time John reached it and hunkered down, back pressed flat against the bleached stone that radiated heat along his spine, all he heard was the roar of the storm. It howled and whistled, tugged at his combat fatigues and hair.  
  
With less oxygen the temperature rose and it became harder to breathe. He adjusted the neckerchief that Ocelot had given him as a parting gift when John had set out for his first mission. Each inhalation through the blood-red fabric carried the fading scent of aftershave. - Patchouli, amber and bergamot, combined with a hint of olibanum and vetiver, as far as John could tell.  
  
Another little detail that had changed in step with the big picture. Despite his cowboy getup, Ocelot was far less flashy now, had mellowed to become the level-headed and calm one, especially when compared to Kaz, who burned too bright with his unrelenting thirst for revenge.  
  
Sweat ran down John's temple and soaked his fatigues, left trails on his dusty skin that began to itch and burn from being pelted with tiny shrapnel. 'Like sandblasting a goddamn car,' John thought. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with a muffled sigh, metallic finger just barely brushing the rim of his eyepatch.  
  
It was nothing but his battlefield-honed instinct that had him dive to the side when a darker shadow raced towards him through the blur of the storm. The wind battered the piece of corrugated iron against the boulder with enough force that it bent with a screech, then tore it away again.  
  
John only grunted as the edge caught his shoulder and sat back up. No choice but to wait for the weather to clear.  
  
xxx  
  
'Weather will clear shortly.'  
  
John raised his head and pulled the neckerchief down, greedily inhaling a lungful of air that wasn't filtered or choked with fine dust. He listened for a moment, then made to stand, ignoring the protest of muscles that had become stiff from sitting still for over an hour.  
  
Sand had collected in his lap, each crease of fabric, dulling the camouflage of his combat fatigues to a plain ocher. Stretching, John shook himself like a wet dog, spraying grains, pebbles, and dust everywhere. A good portion was still stuck in his hair, caking his sweaty skin. The rest had trickled down the back of his collar, itching in uncomfortable places. Unthinking, John licked his chapped lips and instantly regretted it.  
  
The radio crackled with static, then: "Boss, come in. Boss? We lost your signal for a while there. All that waiting has made Miller... a little twitchy."  
  
Busy hacking his lungs up and spotting the gleam of a helmet in the distance, John didn't waste time with answering. Instead, he pulled out his iDroid and marked the nearest LZ, then took off towards it at a steady pace, watchful for more patrols.  
  
"Roger that," Ocelot said, acknowledging the incoming request for a chopper. "I'll go and tell Miller to stop fretting."  
  
xxx  
  
"You left a trail of sand all over Mother Base," Ocelot said. The rowels of his spurs clinked sharply as he moved to sit on the couch. "Straight from the landing platform to Miller's office and then to your quarters."  
  
The air inside the spacious room was cool, far less oppressive than the summer's heat outside, if a little humid with wisps of steam. Recently turned off, water dripped from the shower head onto tiles in a steady beat. The tiny bathroom was separated from the living area by a simple partition. The desk was full of neatly arranged stacks of paperwork that needed signing. Strewn in-between and on the chair lay cassette tapes, a field stripped Glock 17, sans its barrel, and a few cigars. Everything else was spotless and utilitarian, lacked any personal touch.  
  
Ocelot inhaled deeply and wasn't surprised to find that the air still smelled faintly of fresh paint.  
  
"Easy enough for you to follow then," John commented mildly.  
  
Ocelot leaned back into the cushion, appreciating what he saw with a grin. "I always know where to find you."  
  
John was flushed from his shower, all toned muscles and sun-tanned skin, hair loose and curling a little at the tips. A white towel rode low on his hips, treating Ocelot to a view he had taken long hours to map out over the course of the last few weeks, to reacquaint himself with. What happened 9 years ago had left its marks in new puckered and pale lines, patches free of hair and sunken starbursts. The imbedded piece of shrapnel was the most prominent, but Ocelot couldn't have cared less for the scars that were visible. Those didn't concern him.  
  
Perhaps all those years without seeing each other had been good for them, in hindsight. Allowed him to mature in a way that had very little to do with his skills as a spy or soldier.  
  
As he had been back then, his fingers would have itched with the need to poke and prod until he drew blood, all while arousal shivered down his spine. Never even realizing what it was that he felt for John, ever since their first meeting. - Volgin's brand of torture had been a blunt instrument aimed to inflict damage and destroy, had nothing to do with the subtle art that Ocelot had cultivated. Intel was always time sensitive and best extracted without more than the threat of pain. Then again, during operation 'Snake Eater' and later with the Patriots, after John had left, Ocelot had had no chance to be himself. By necessity, he had been caught up in the intricate web of false identities, implanted memories and character traits, shifting allegiances, lies and half-truths, that had been his life.  
  
Well, considering Huey's arrival at Mother Base, other than his gunslinger skills and ricochet 'trick shots', his talent for torture would surely come in handy sooner or later.  
  
But everything else? Major Ocelot? That wasn't what John and his Diamond Dogs needed from him now, especially with Miller so focused on the past and his revenge against Skull Face that he was blinded towards the future, the dream Big Boss was still fighting for, even if Cipher had forced him to start from scratch.  
  
"Help me with this."  
  
His thoughts interrupted, Ocelot caught the jar that was tossed towards him. He screwed off the lid and set it aside, then pulled off his gloves. "Turn around."  
  
John sat down beside him and obeyed, metaphorically baring his throat to him without a second thought. He had removed his bionic prosthetic, left it on the desk where the last rays of sunlight gleamed on the red metal. Other than Miller, who acted like a cornered animal, snarling at everyone who dared venture too close, John had accepted the loss of his limb after the initial shock, had no problem with the stump being seen.  
  
The men loved that. The legendary soldier, walking among them, revealing himself to be human - and a cardboard box loving nerd - at the same time that he proved himself larger-than-life and damn near unstoppable in the field.  
  
"That bad?" John asked when he hesitated a moment too long, tone light and amused, watching him out of the corner of his eye.  
  
Ocelot snorted softly. "You've had worse."  
  
While that was true, he was still careful and gentle as he applied the ointment on skin that was near black, the whole shoulder bruised. Ocelot enjoyed the simple task, if not the biting, antiseptic scent, the feeling of muscles tensing and relaxing underneath the slide and circling of his fingertips.  
  
"Anywhere else?"  
  
John shook his head. "I'm good."  
  
The movement had a few strands of damp hair tickle along the back of Ocelots' hand. He did not fret like Miller, but that didn't mean that he didn't worry at all. He followed through on the impulse to reach up and pull, to surge forward and bend his spine in an awkward curve, crushing their lips together.  
  
John tasted like one of his cigars, smoked while in transit with Pequod, no doubt. Blood too, when he bit down a little too hard in retaliation, breaking the skin of Ocelot's lower lip only to follow up with a soothing lick.  
  
Aware of his surroundings, his mind registering details even now, when all he seemed to look at was that piercing blue eye, and all that mattered was the wet slide of a tongue along his own, he still recognized the aborted movement for what it was: a shove that could not connect for lack of a hand.  
  
"Boss?" Ocelot sat back. "Not in the mood?"  
  
John snorted. It wasn't as if the rumpled towel hid how much he'd enjoyed that little ambush. "There's a bed right over there."  
  
"So age _does_ slow you down."  
  
"Don't worry." John pushed himself up with a low grunt. "You'll get there too."  
  
His own mortality had always been easier to deal with than the thought of John's, but this time Ocelot felt more at ease with the concept. He could tease and mean it, because Mother Base and the Diamond Dogs were home now, and all plans in place and set in motion, for Skull Face, Cipher, and beyond, he had made together with John.  
  
Ocelot followed him to the bed, shedding his clothes one piece at a time, his shirt landing on the towel John had tossed on the floor. "Sounds nice - growing old together."  
  
"We talking retirement home?"  
  
"More like living on the battlefield," Ocelot answered, knowing well what it was John craved, but he thought less of that than stealing moments such as these. "Until we meet that bullet with our name on it."  
  
One last fanciful western notion that made John laugh. But he was pretty sure that neither of them would meet their end just because a random grunt got lucky.  
  
The mattress dipped under his added weight as Ocelot straddled John's thighs. Desperate, almost brutal fucking was fun and had its place, but now he wanted to take his time, for no other reason than that he could, and that Snake would let him.


End file.
